Brian and I just returned from an incredible 16-day adventure in Ireland. And in true Chrissy fashion, I managed to include a side of ridiculous (or twelve) in our summer vacation. Most notably on our last night in Dublin during the first leg of our trip.

Visiting the Guinness storehouse on our first day in Dublin (running on zero sleep and pints of that ruby red life blood).

It all started after a nap. Well, Brian napped. I mindlessly scrolled through Instagram in an attempt to relinquish the final edges of jetlag without sleeping. We had arrived in Dublin two days prior after a sleepless night on a plane and been zombie-walking our way through the city into every uncrowded bar with music that didn’t prevent us from having a conversation (have I mentioned my husband is an introvert?).

After rousing ourselves from bed, we realized that we needed to locate food immediately because most restaurants in the area seemed to shut down around 9 pm. Our hotel felt like it was in the middle of a food desert, so our options were limited if we planned to walk. After some Googling, Brian found a bar/restaurant that piqued his interest. The food was Southern American, but the bar had a self-described enormous board game collection. Our people!

So I put on my nerdiest accessories — an Avengers Infinity bracelet featuring the infinity stones and dinosaur necklace, both of which were early birthday presents from Brian — and we began the twenty-minute walk to said bar.

When we finally arrived at the bar, I sat down and Brian went to check out the game shelf. I realized the bartender would not be visiting the table, so I pulled my credit card out of my wallet and strolled up to the bar to get menus and order drinks. I asked for a menu, and the bartender looked at me like I was an idiot before telling me the kitchen was closed. I slid my credit card into my jeans pocket and walked to Brian so we could discuss the situation. We left and went to the Asian fusion restaurant directly next to the bar to get food.

After eating, we decided that we didn’t want to pay 10 Euro to play games we already had at home and began the walk back to our hotel. There was a great looking Irish pub next to the hotel, and we figured we could go play our own games (why yes, we did pack three pocket-size strategy games for two weeks in Ireland, and it was brilliant) in a nicer atmosphere.

Though we had just eaten, snacks seemed like a necessary and important reason to stop at a convenience store…or two. At the first one, I paid with Samsung Pay on my phone, leaving my credit card safely forgotten in the pocket of my jeans.

Because we couldn’t find a snack that Brian wanted, we proceeded to a different convenience store a block further from our hotel. We found some snacks and walked to the self-pay kiosk. Brian put his credit card in the machine and then pulled it out after he thought it was through. When the receipt didn’t print, he put his card back in for a second attempt. The kiosk called for an attendant because he needed to sign a slip. The attendant didn’t know what was going on, and a flurry of chaos escalated everyone’s panic and stress. We finally left the store with our packages in tow.

As we walked, I started feeling the urge to use the ladies room. I thought I could make it to the hotel, but Brian spotted a pub that the hop on/hop off bus tour guide swooned about when we passed it. Knowing that sometimes my need to use the bathroom can have disastrous consequences, he offered a solution.

“I’ll go get a drink. You go to the bathroom.”

It seemed harmless enough…

We walked in, and I immediately regretted my decision. This was a local watering hole that reminded me of The Snuggly Duckling. I walked to the bathroom through a dark back bar and a dimly lit hallway. I stepped down into a tiny two-stall bathroom where a woman in her sixties was smoking a cigarette and ashing it into the sink. I went for the first stall when I realized there was no toilet seat to be found. So I had to maneuver around Smokey McGee to get into the second stall.

I wiggled around the door into the stall and locked it, noticing there was no hook to hang my fleece or my purse. The floor was soaked — and I’m not sure from what — so I zipped up my purse and placed it on the back of the toilet and prayed. I tossed my fleece up above the door, effectively hanging it over into the bathroom (Smokey had flown the coop, so it was just me in there at this point).

I went to the bathroom and then started collecting my belongings. First I grabbed my fleece, which was now accompanied by a thick layer of yellow, musty dust. When I tried to pat it off, my Infinity bracelet unclasped and went flying into a puddle of wet floor. Who knew my bracelet would become the latest in a lifetime of vacation fashion fails.

Visibly flustered, I grabbed my purse, wiggled out of the stall, washed my hands and bracelet, tucked the bracelet into my pocket — feeling it beside my credit card — and hustled out to Brian, who had not ordered a drink. We rushed out of the bar and I began regaling Brian with my bathroom tale reaching into my pocket and grabbing the bracelet to show him.

We arrived back at our hotel. Brian brought the convenience store snacks to the room and grabbed our games, while I waited in the lobby. A call came in from a 00000 number, so I ignored it (spam calls are not worth 25 cents a minute). When a voicemail came through, I listened to it, fully expecting a deletable junk message. Except that it wasn’t.

It was Capital One calling to tell me someone had found my credit card (the credit card I was planning to use to rent a car the next day), and they were trying to return it to me. After a brisk walk back to the bar, interviews with every human we came in contact with, and a complete walk-through of our evening, we finally let Capital One cancel my card and walked back to our hotel.

“Do you still want to get a drink?” Brian asked, after noting my overstressed and sad disposition.

“Uh yes. Yes I do.”

We walked just past our hotel into the pub, found a comfortable spot, and Brian reached into his wallet to get his credit card out…

It’s moments like this that you have to laugh. Because there is literally nothing as absurd as discovering that you and your husband both lost your credit cards within minutes of each other. We swapped roles as Brian went into a panic-and-anger-at-himself mode, I went into crisis-management mode.

Confident that his card was at the convenience store, we left the bar and I began Googling for a phone number. The hotel made a local call for us, and we discovered the store had just closed, and it went straight to voicemail. We called a cab to take us back over there and then back again (It was late, and not the safest-looking of neighborhoods). The cab driver let us out to go bang on the window of the convenience store until someone noticed us (they all had headphones on!) and waited across the street.

We thankfully retrieved Brian’s credit card, at least, and were relieved to walk back to the cab…when the cab wouldn’t start. The driver had to pop the hood and wiggle a few things until the engine finally started up again.

After all of the hoopla and insanity, we decided not to take any more chances with our bad luck, and we went straight to bed. Did not pass go, did not collect $200. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I couldn’t help but wonder if this evening was a preview of the rest of our Irish vacation or would we even bounce back from this nonsense?

What’s the craziest string of bad luck that you’ve had on vacation? Have you ever lost your credit card while traveling internationally? How did you deal? Let me know in the comments!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I recently returned from the beautiful Dayton Riviera, where I embraced the joys of life and love and humor with my writing tribe at the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop. I have A LOT to say about this conference and the magic that happens there, but first, I thought it would be fun to share my performance in the Saturday night stand-up show, in which I discussed our wedding, my light-up skirt (which I wore on the first night of the conference), and a few tidbits about my relationship with Brian. I was just as nervous as that one time I read the story of my first period at a different writing conference, and it was just as exciting.

Well, without further ado, here’s the video!

Of course, I left my notes on stage. Of course I did. But I didn’t need to look at them once!

Have you ever done stand-up comedy or performed? Tell me about it in the comments.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Well hey there, blog friends! Long time no see. I took a bit of a breather for the holidays, started making some plans, and started implementing some plans. And now I’m back. With something a little different.

The point is that I want to dabble in something a little more specific. A little more me, even. So I figured I’d pull an idea my bestie Cletus came up with back in our college days. He called it 60 Seconds of Chrissy. And I shall too.

60 Seconds of Chrissy will be a little snippet of my adventures clipped to a mere 60 seconds. Brevity is not my strong suit, so this will be a learning experience for everyone. But I’ll also come back here to the blog and give you a little more story behind the video if there is one.

For the first video, I’ve gone ahead and put together a little montage of that one time we went to a high ropes course with ziplining, right here in the western suburbs of Chicago called GoApe. They have a number of courses around the country, so there may even be one in your backyard too.

I was excited and nervous, and we spent a glorious 4+ hours sweating our brains out and adventuring high in the trees. Most of the adventure was pretty run of the mill, and I surprised myself by walking some of the course without holding on to the ropes. In many cases, you had the option of taking the “hard” path or the “easy” path, and 90% of the time, I took the easy path.

The one exception was the Tarzan swing near the end of the course, which you’ll see in the video below. What you won’t see in the video is the number of times I counted out 3-2-1 go…and didn’t go. Or the aftermath.

Well, here’s the video first. Then we can talk about the aftermath.

“Fuck me.”

Yep. That’s exactly how I felt. Because as it turns out, I had gone and fucked myself. With my lack of upper body strength (y’all I have leg strength like nobody’s business, but my arms and core need some serious help), I was unable to attach myself to that spiderweb of rope to climb up to the tower where Brian was standing. To add insult to injury, the harness I was wearing was uncomfortably digging into my body, so I was also in pain.

And that’s when the screaming began.

30 feet above the ground, hanging from some cables, and sitting in a harness, I had a panic attack. I felt like I was stranded and there was no way out. I needed help, but I didn’t know if help would ever come. I was helpless and afraid and screaming to get me out of there. What felt like an eternity later, a woman showed up to assist me. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to get myself stuck on the Tarzan swing. The woman hooked up a third harness dealie, and pulleyed it up to me. I connected to it, and she was able to help move me over to the tower and up just enough that I could crawl onto the platform.

I was ashamed, embarrassed, and feeling pretty low. Would I even finish the course?

And then I remembered that I’m resilient as fuck, and I finished the last two paths across the trees and the final zip line. And that zip line reminded me that I could jump again, even when the last jump failed me. And after watching that 60-second video? I feel like a bad ass mother who won’t take no crap off of nobody.

So, YouTube is doing this thing where small content creators aren’t going to be able to make money off their piddly little videos anymore unless they have over 1,000 followers of their channel. Would you do me a solid and subscribe?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

It’s been 5 months since Brian and I tied the proverbial knot. And let me tell ya, marriage isn’t easy. It’s been rough going as we wade through real life and what’s true or not. The world is insane, you guys.

Here are just a few of the crazy “truths”that have come to light and we’ve had to deal with since our wedding day.

My husband always steals the sheets. Sometimes, I wake up cold, shivering in my skivvies because BRIAN likes to keep the heat at OFF all winter long.

I do all the laundry. I mean, somedays, there’s just piles and piles of it, and I slave over the washing machine when I could be doing things like painting my nails, Facebooking, or plotting my next getaway with friends.

My husband might be a shopaholic. If he spends $8.99 on Zulily purchases 3 days in a row, and travels from T.J. Maxx to Marshall’s to Tuesday Morning to Ross every weekend, and then spends quality train time on World Market, Amazon, and Bed Bath and Beyond every morning, he might have a problem, right?

My husband really hates vacuuming. But he loves inviting dogs to spend the night. Just last week, we had one of our niece dogs over for a weekend jaunt, and I had to vacuum after she left, AND wash all the couch covers.

As you can see, the struggle is real, you guys. Wading the truth and fiction, and seeking out the tiny bits of truth among alternative facts takes a lot of work. So I’m just going to go shopping and paint my nails or something. If I buy new clothes, I don’t have to do laundry, right?

What alternative facts are hindering your relationship?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Did you know people send prayers out into the universe via The Google?

I did.

Do you know how I knew that?

Because their prayers come to me.

I’ve decided to take it upon myself to send those prayers up to the big guy. We have a history, you know. I would pray for things. He would give them to me. And it would take three months for me to figure it the fuck out. Like my first period.

So in honor of life’s little miracles, I thought I’d share some anonymous prayers I’ve recieved–in my search terms–so you, too can help these people out.
Like this guy. He just needs a little help.

one day god will answer my prayers

I’ll send him a message for you.

She Works Hard for the Money

Someone help this lady help her friend. She just works too damn hard.

good please pray this woman gets of my friends back she works way toi hard for this shit

There was a little spelling mishap, so she tried again.

good please pray this woman gets of my friends back she works way too hard for this shit

I think she still missed one. No big deal. You guys, will help her, right?

They Really Need Their Period

Whether they don’t want an unplanned pregnancy or they’re dying to join their friends in riding the cotton pony — damn, that’s my new favorite phrase — help these ladies out and say a little prayer for them.

prayer to get your period

prayer to get my period

thoughts & prayers to make my period come

Oh thank God. She got her period!

after i prayed i found out i was in my period so was my prayer accepted

This girl is still waiting.

i still pray for my first periods but i dont have them

Sweetheart, you can always pray. I promise.

when should i assume i can’t pray when i’m on my period

This one is blaming her period on not praying…

missed prayer and got period

Well, when you’re looking for period prayers, you know where to go.

His Girlfriend Needs Your Prayers

He knows he got a good one. Can we pray that she sticks around?

pray for your girlfriend that you have now

The Mother’s Curse

Ah, the mother’s curse. My grandma wished it upon my mom, and my mom wished it upon me. Can you even handle another Chrissy is this world? Let’s pray for all the mothers who end up with daughters headstrong and brave, just like them.

remember what you were like and pray for your children that’s just like you

In the End it’s all What You Believe

just believe your prayers are answered

That’s right, my friends, just believe. And if you’re a believer, go ahead and help my search term visitors with their praying.

Do you ever search The All-Knowing Google for answers to your prayers?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

This year has been…interesting thus far to say the least. In addition to the deaths of some of my favorite people…Jareth Bowie. Snape Rickman, I’ve been stricken with a few grievous issues. Only a few weeks in and I’ve had the laryngitis, back maladies, a small addiction to the Twitter, and a serious case of Netflixitis.

What is Netflixitis, you ask? Well, first, I thought to myself, Self, you just made up Netflixitis. Aren’t you clever?

And then I thought to myself, Self, you should probably Google Netflixitis to see if you’re really the first person to think of such a clever thing.

And then I Googled Netflixitis and discovered that it is, in fact, a “real” thing. Of course, it is pretty much exactly what you expect it to be. It’s an affliction of the mind and body in which you physically cannot say no to Netflix. No matter how many times it asks you if you’re “still watching Gilmore Girls?” No matter how many episodes you can get through on a Saturday that you have zero plans (and for the record, Netflix will ask you at least 3 times if you’re still watching). No matter how many Christmas trees are still up in your big, fancy, unkempt house. No matter how many things you haven’t planned for the wedding that’s nearing on 8 months away.

I see that judgy way you popped on screen, Netflix.

Netflixitis is a healing disease. Especially when it includes snacks. And a lot of drugs for your back pain. And just the right positioning on the couch. It may take weeks of recovery. And for that, we’re thankful that all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls are available on Netflix. And by “we,” I mostly mean me, although Brian has partaken of the Gilmore Girls for several hour spans of time.

Netflixitis is a disease that also doubles as an idea machine. When I told Katie I was starting on the Gilmorathon last month, she warned me of several weddings, but I had no idea that each season would be ripe with marriages and weddings and big fancypants parties. Did you know that there are AT LEAST seven weddings on Gilmore Girls? I’m only halfway through Season 5, and I can count SEVEN freakin’ weddings. And all the ideas. Oh man. I mean, I want midgets dressed like angels dancing under papier-mâché mushrooms, don’t you?

I’m totally kidding.

Sort of.

Netflixitis is a beautiful thing. Netflix is my beautiful thing.

Even if I do have this minor condition.

7 Signs you may have a case of Netflixitis

You continue to binge watch episodes of a TV show that you’ve never seen before, despite the dishes that haven’t been washed in a week…just like your hair.

You’re now binge watching episodes of a TV show you’ve seen at least twice all the way through.

You’re imagining your life as Liz Lemon, Lorelai Gilmore, and Buffy Summers at the same time. You’re smart, quirky and a total bad ass. You rock. Netflixitis makes you awesome.

You wake up from a dream in which you’re a teenager and boys are sneaking into your window (seriously, Rory lives on the first floor of her dorm and people can just get into her room? I lived on the first floor and we were lucky the windows even opened).

You come home from work, grab a sammy, and plop down in front of the TV for night of the Gilmore Girls, only to be highly disappointed when you realize you left your beverage in the kitchen.

You haven’t left the couch in three days and your boyfriend is sending out SOS signals from your bed.

Have you ever suffered from Netflixitis? What is your favorite thing to binge watch right now? Are you a Gilmore Girls addict?

As a member of the Stream Team, Netflix sponsors these fun little posts which give me the ability to watch 24/7 streaming TV and write about it. I had a Netflix account long before I was a Stream Teamer, and all opinions expressed are entirely my own.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

For pretty much my whole life, I’ve ignored warning labels. I’m completely accident prone and have been known to injure myself in the most bizarre of ways, so it makes perfect sense that I should live in such a beautiful lala land and ignore warnings.

If you have any aversion to discussion of cuts on skin, consider this your warning label. The rest of you may find some humor in it. I sure did.

A few nights ago, I was sitting on the couch in one of the few comfortable positions I have, when I reached back to scratch an itch. It was in this brief moment that I realized I had some grievous malady on my lower back that I didn’t recall before. I yelped in pain and when I pulled my hand back, I took a piece of skin with me.

At first, I thought it was just a weird scratch. Maybe I scratched a back zit or something. And so I did what any normal person would do. I stood up and tried to take a picture of it so I could see what was going on.

I reached back, tenderly sliding my hand along my lower back for fear that I would brush against the cut too hard. I quickly realized that this cut was not on my lower back, but instead on my upper left butt cheek.

How the fuck did I cut my butt?

So there I was with my pants around my knees and my underwear pulled down under my ass, trying to take a picture of my butt cheek to see what was the matter, when Brian appeared at the top of the stairs. He had heard me yelp a few times and figured I was trying to do something I shouldn’t with my injured back.

Oh, perfect. I need your help.

After nearly five years together, he has long since stopped asking what weird thing I’m doing and instead asks what happened or how can he help.

I told him I was trying to take a picture, and as he came closer, he noted the red spot on my back…by touching it. The bloodcurdling scream might have been overkill, but holy crap was that painful as fuck.

He jumped back, unaware of what was going on. I handed him my phone and told him to take a picture.

It looks like nothing. Definitely not like something that would produce such a visceral reaction.

Well, it hurts like a motherfucker. I can’t believe you just touched it with your nail like that.

“That wasn’t my nail. It was just my finger.” He rebutted. And then added, “It looks like skin is peeled away–”

I know. I got a piece of skin when I scratched my ass.

Did you have a blister? Could it be all allergic reaction from your jeans?

I had already considered my metal allergy, and knew it wasn’t that, but a blister totally sounded right. I thought about what I had done in the last day or two that could create a blister. Had I pinched myself sitting in a chair? On the toilet? Did I walk into something and cut myself recently? Probably. What was it? I couldn’t think of anything else…

Until it hit me.

Brian, it’s a BURN!

How did you burn your butt–

Heating pad.

OH!

Remember what I said about warning labels?

Apparently, the warning label on a heating pad ain’t lyin’. For decades, I never believed the protective cover on a heating pad was necessary. I also didn’t believe the part where it says you shouldn’t lay on the heating pad. Or the part where it says you shouldn’t leave it on for more than 30 minutes. And especially not the part where it says you shouldn’t fall asleep with the heating pad.

Besides, the warning label faded off the heating pad years ago.

So now, I have a burned ass and I can’t heat my lower back until it’s better. At least I can laugh about it, because how many people do you know that would burn their butts with a heating pad?

Have you ever burned yourself with a normal household item? Do you follow or ignore warning labels?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Twitter is this magic beast; it’s quite the antithesis of Facebook, really. A lot of people shouting and pretending to listen, but no one’s really fighting (most of the time) because they’re caught up in their own jam.

Twitter kind of reminds me of a 90’s chat room. A lot of shouting and like five really awkward or really interesting side conversations.

Unless you’re following hashtags and that’s a whole ‘nother world. But if you’re not following hashtags, and you’re just following people, there’s a rabbit hole of awesome that you, too, can experience in the flesh.

The woman next to me on the train is typing up her annual performance review. From what I can see, she’s impressive as fuck in bullshitting.

I’ve had a Twitter account for years, but I feel like a total noob, which obviously isn’t stopping me from telling you how to win at Twitter. This is what I’m learning.1. Twitter likes you best when you’re hot, lazy, and love food. The number of people who followed me over the course of the year was completely correlated to the attractiveness of my profile picture (you know what a selfie whore I am) and the number of times I mentioned cheese. My best tweets all involve me not wanting to remove myself from bed, but desperately craving food or eating an embarrassing number of doughnuts. Whatever. Twitter, I get you. This is why we’re friends.

What do you mean by “doughnuts aren’t lunch?”
— Quirky Chrissy (@quirky_chrissy) December 8, 2015

2. It’s all about go big or go home. The way to grow your Twitter followership? Actively immerse yourself in the Twitter. I mean, if you’re lazy and love food, you’ll love wasting your time on Twitter. I do. There are a lot of hilarious as fuck people out there. I think to myself, “can I keep you?” And then I follow them on Twitter. And I can keep them in my pocket. It’s like magic.

3. You can make friends all over the place when you’re weird. That go big thing about Twitter being a time suck? It’s because you’re supposed to socialize in the blue bird sandbox. Get crackin’ and find the people who get your humor/sentiments/anger/love/weirdness. They’ll welcome you with open retweets and faves. Unless you’re a dick. And even then, someone probably likes you. Again with the magic.

When you eat chocolate right before you brush your teeth, it’s kind of like a peppermint patty.

4. The pound sign is out. Remember when that was what we called the #? Hashtags are fun to make up but totally not required to make friends. Don’t worry you can still hash your heart out on Instagram. Or you can run with the Twitter pack that plays the hashtag game.

5. It’s all in the hips. Not really. I just wanted to say that. Honestly, I think it’s all about who you are. If you’re weird, like food a little too much and hate getting out of bed, you’ll probably enjoy being my Twitter friend, but if you’re the complete opposite, I’m absolutely positive there are people who’ll get you too.

I used to get out of bed and do things in the morning. But then I got a smart phone.

They took away my mirrors

My narcissism knows no bounds, and when the lobby renovation of my building was finished, there were no more mirrors for me to double check myself before heading up to my office. There used to be a wall of mirrors and gold mirrored elevator doors in which I could double check my hair, look for wardrobe malfunctions, and just get a good glance at myself as I walked down the long hallway.

Once they began construction, I knew nothing was ever going to be the same.

I had no idea what I was doing

I wasn’t a writer anymore, but I was still writing a little social media content. I was also negotiating big fat contracts and talking to potential partners. lt was strange and scary, but let’s be honest here…I was talking to people every day, shmoozing, and learning…I kinda liked it. And it turns out, I’m pretty good at it.

They wanted me to work in the office on Black Friday

Not at MY office, mind you, but the corporate office, which was about an hour drive. I was told to bring crossword puzzles because it was known that there was nothing my team could do to help the madness. Let me clarify that I was planning on working Black Friday. From home. I could care less about shopping these days, but driving up to the main office at 4 am to do crossword puzzles? Sounds like a waste of my time. If I had to work on Black Friday, and could be of any use to my peers (other than running coffee, which was also a recommended option for things to do), sure no problem. But that wasn’t the case. The office would have been a lonely skeleton in which I felt trapped by corporate entities that just wanted to look good in front of their superiors. That don’t impress me much.

My friends were leaving

At one point, I had oodles of friends at my old company. But they were all moving on to bigger and better things. New fancy companies with matching hoodies and name recognition that would make anyone swoon. I’ll admit I was jealous. That green-eyed monster can be a beast.

Something magical happened

Sure, those were all perfectly acceptable reasons to leave a perfectly acceptable job. But I’m not really that kind of girl. After a few less than savory experiences in the world of employment, I knew it was important to be picky as fuck when I did finally jump ship and the only reason I would ever leave would be if I found something amazing to take its place. And somehow, I happened across a magical unicorn of job listings at a company I really wanted to work for doing something I wanted to do…and the rest, as they say, is history.

I feel like I’m home.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I realize that I’m a total creeper. To be fair, you guys asked for more of these…so if you’re weirded out, you’ve only got yourself to blame. Except for the graphic. That was all me.

My old company had a big ole corporate office that I almost never visited. I worked at a satellite office full of hipsters and people who didn’t seem to mind that I wore rainbow yoga pants to work. It was a comfortable place to be. In my last couple of months at the company, I was required to make my way to corporate on a weekly cadence. My teammates and I called it Mordor because a dark cloud seemed to loom over the long drive to the office.

One of the neat things about Mordor err…corporate was the miniature city within an office. When I realized I needed to buy tampons, I could just head to the convenience store inside the building. Which is exactly what I did on my last Mordor err…corporate day.

I walked into the shop, where a woman was sitting behind a register on the left side of the counter and a young man was standing behind the register on the right side. Another employee was walking back and forth through the store, and I made my way to the pharmacy aisle.

I grabbed a box of tampons, walked down the snack aisle, stared longingly at the box of Oreos that I opted not to purchase, and made my way to the cashier, a young gentleman in his late teens/early twenties. I thought to myself how far I’d come since my embarrassing first period, and how I didn’t give two shits that some dude had to pick up a box of tampons, look me in the eye, and ask if I needed anything else. If he did ask, I considered telling him to hold on a second, I needed some Midol – just for funsies, but he never gave me the chance. He scanned my tampons, and as I was punching in my phone number to the system, some other guy (my assumption is that he was the manager or supervisor) walked behind him.

This was the exchange that played out.

Cashier: K, I am not in the mood. I’m sick and don’t feel well.

Wait, what the fuck is going on? Where did that even come from? That guy never said anything.

Supervisor: I don’t give a shit.

Woah. Hostile much? Wait, these people are AT WORK. This is how they’re speaking to each other in front of customers. This is SO fucked up.

Cashier: Fuck this place.

Well, this is an interesting turn of events…I wonder if he’s going to…

The cashier reaches behind his neck, pulls off the lanyard he’s wearing, and drops his badge on the counter before I’ve had the chance to swipe my credit card.

Cashier: I quit. I’m done dealing with this bullshit. Have fun making deliveries today.

Did that seriously just happen?

Yep. Yes, it did. That guy just quit. While ringing up my tampons.

Me: Ummm…can someone complete my transaction?

The girl sitting down stood and moved toward the register I was at, and the previous cashier turned from the door before he left.

Cashier: A, I’m really sorry. I’m sick of this shit. I have to go.

That was fucking ridiculous.

The girl completed my transaction, and I went on my merry way. Furiously typing up the exchange in my “other people’s conversations” files, anxious to tell you about this insanely ridiculous story.

It seemed fitting that this happened on my last day at the central office, as I only had a few days left. I was glad I didn’t quit in anger like that guy, but it definitely added to the weirdness I felt about leaving.

Have you ever witnessed someone leave their job or have you quit in a rage? What is the craziest way in which you’ve left a job?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

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